EQUAL
by Little Mr Benedict x
Summary: The first chapter of my first ever FanFiction! Sherlock and Moriarty meet in person for the first time, and Sherlock is surprised at what he gets. Definite slash and scenes of a sexual nature people! If it ain't your thing don't read it!


**So yeah. I am very new to the fanfiction world, so don't shout at me or kill my family with sticks if I'm very bad, ok?  
Obviously I don't own Sherlock Holmes or the idea of a modern Sherlock, all owned by Arthur Conan Doyle and this adaptation the BBC. Trust me, a lot more gay slash would be going on if I **_**did**_** own Sherlock...**

**Reviews are very welcome :)**

A Perfect Match

Chapter one:

According to John, real people in the real world are not supposed to have arch enemies. But Sherlock did. And Sherlock was on his way to meeting this enemy for the first time; Moriarty was finally going to show himself, and Sherlock was more than a little excited. Sherlock knew how appalled John would have been had he been aware of his plans for that evening. Apparently murder and carnage should upset Sherlock. He didn't see why. To be frank, he was rather glad of the distraction and it simply had to be said that Moriarty was proving to be a brilliant one, as distractions these days go. His cases were cleverer than most, and the 12 hour limit he'd put to Sherlock's solving of them only made it all the more enthralling for Sherlock. Did that make him a bad person? That he _enjoyed_ saving people? Admittedly, the intellectually challenging aspects of the cases were those that initially attracted Sherlock, not the joy that one should ostensibly endure when saving people he'd never met. In his opinion, John and suchlike should have been counting their blessings that Sherlock himself had not taken the Moriarty route, and introduced himself to the criminal classes. Because Sherlock knew that Moriarty was only doing what he was doing in order to release the aching boredom that Sherlock was all too familiar with. This was why Sherlock felt nothing but gratitude and a healthy amount of competition towards the man. The man that John and Lestrade and everyone else seemed to think he should detest. Because they did not understand – they _couldn't_ understand how torturous it was for people like Sherlock. People like Moriarty. The intelligent people; the oddities. This was another thing Sherlock had coined about Moriarty, even before meeting him in the flesh. That they were the same.

He liked to watch Sherlock dance. And it was sometimes difficult to explain to John and everyone else that Sherlock's only response to this was a great deal of willing to do so. Would they rather him be bored?

The swimming pool where Sherlock had arranged to meet his mysterious adversary was more than a little eerie. Sherlock liked that. Of course, the fact that it was deserted and it being close to midnight made the setting all the more apt for the upcoming scene. The mass of glittering water was strangely tempting to Sherlock – he had a strange urge as he walked slowly by the pool to just let go and jump in. Obviously he resisted such urges – he often had these odd compulsions, but they rarely resulted in much. He supposed they were just an unadorned result of his obsessive, introverted individuality. Tedium was his greatest (nay his _only_ fear) thus making random, out of the ordinary feats (such as jumping head first into a deserted swimming pool) inexplicably enticing. Putting his arbitrary desires to one side, Sherlock stopped and peered around the uncannily uninhabited pool.  
"Brought you a little 'Getting to know you Present'," He said, sure to keep his voice cool and collected as he waved the missile-plans memory stick in the air. It was a shot in the dark, but it was entirely possible that this tiny, stolen memory stick was Moriarty's true objective. Sherlock was all but desperate for that not to be the case, though. That would make Moriarty nothing but a governmental villain; a man only interested in commercial success, even if said success was in a criminal area. Sherlock didn't want that. Sherlock wanted someone more like himself. A man who was simply doing this to ease the tedium that standard life ensures. A man who only cares about his own needs, because he fails to see the point in fulfilling others'. A man who would do this _properly_, i.e. as the _great game_ that it was. Sherlock was hardly interested in people who seek national importance or materialistic rewards, such as Missile Plans. He wanted another oddity.

There was noise and Sherlock turned on his heel, a gentle simmer of adrenalin fizzing in his stomach as he prepared to face the man he'd built up in his mind to be his perfect match. Someone stepped out from the shadows in a big duffle coat, and Sherlock could immediately tell that this was rigged with explosives. He knew before even registering the man's face who it was.

"_John_,"

An unfamiliar trickle of fear slid down Sherlock's spine at the thought of being the cause of his only friend's gruesome death. But said fear was almost immediately replaced by the evermore recognisable bout of excitement that spread through Sherlock like a wonderful warmth. _Now it gets interesting_.

Then John spoke.  
"This is a turnup_, _isn'titSherlock,"  
His voice was different – cold, calculated. Sherlock knew he was speaking Moriarty's words, just like the other hostages had.  
"Bet you never saw this coming,"John said, his voice cracking ever so slightly under the pressure. He opened the duffle coat a tiny fraction, flashing Sherlock a good glimpse of the mountain of explosives tied securely inside. Sherlock stepped cautiously towards his friend.  
"What...would you like me... to make him say... next?"  
Moriarty was playing with him. John was Moriarty's playing piece – like a pawn on a chess board.  
"Gottle o'gear," John said. Sherlock had to try not to smile. "Gottle o'gear, Gottle o'gear, Gottle o'gear,"  
"Stop it," Sherlock said, tiring of Moriarty using his flatmate for his own pleasure. If anything, Sherlock felt a bit left out. He had no playing pieces, as it were, and was dying to become part of the fun.

"Who are you?" Sherlock was growing impatient – the anticipation was becoming unbearable. There was a pause; a door closing on the opposite side of the pool, and then a voice. A mimicking, whiny, Irish voice, echoing across the dazzling water and flowing through Sherlock's very essence.  
_"I gave you my number. Thought you might call,"_ Sherlock held his breath and his first and only analogous rival came sauntering into view. He was small – smaller than Sherlock had expected. Then again, he wasn't sure what he'd expected now, not really, because the entirety of his mentality was saturated in the delicate frame that was Moriarty.  
_"Jim? Jim from the hospital?" _He continued, his Irish drawl strangely alluring and yet increasingly frustrating to Sherlock as he realised how quickly he'd dismissed the man at Bart's the first time they'd met.

_How stupid!_

But Moriarty continued, grinning to himself as he bragged at how close to Sherlock he had physically been, and Sherlock's immense stupidity for dismissing it as nothing.

Within moments, Moriarty and Sherlock were face to face. He was a good half a foot shorter than Sherlock, but that did not take a fraction of his dominance away from him. He had a remarkable presence about him for such a slight man, and Sherlock couldn't deny to himself that he was extremely drawn to the guy after barely seconds in his company. John was a little behind Moriarty now, still in exactly the same position he had been since stepping into Sherlock's view, not having spoken since Moriarty had begun using his own mouth to voice his opinions.  
"And how are we on this fine evening?" Moriarty said quietly, his multifaceted intonations playing somewhere between fury and amusement. Sherlock only narrowed his eyes. What was he doing?  
"Sherlock? Hello..." Moriarty smiled, and Sherlock found himself unexpectedly engrossed within his big dark eyes. They too were as intricate as eyes can be; a whirlwind of curiosity and child-like wonder almost reluctantly interwoven with his seemingly inbuilt aggression and resentment towards the entirety of the world. Sherlock couldn't look away. The man was abnormally endearing.  
"Fine," Was all Sherlock could say, just loud enough for Moriarty to hear.  
"Good," was Moriarty's reply, and somewhere within those complex baby dear eyes of his was a hint of sincerity. If Sherlock had known better, he may have even believed that Moriarty was genuinely glad of his wellbeing.

"Jim Moriarty, by the way, but I'm sure you already knew that," The Irishman said, producing a smooth, pale hand for Sherlock to shake. He did so, but only briefly, still not entirely sure where he stood with this peculiar stranger.  
"Sherlock Holmes. I know you knew that," Sherlock said, and Moriarty grinned again.

_His eyes glisten when he smiles._

"Well yes, I have been rather taken by you for quite a while now, Sherlock," He said lightly, cocking his head to the side like a confused child. His expression suddenly became slightly bemused as Jim Moriarty stared into Sherlock Holmes, rifling through his thoughts and steadily altering those he didn't approve of. Sherlock found himself all the more fascinated by him.  
"I can call you Sherlock, can't I? I mean, you can call me Jim, if you want. I'm sure you'll agree that we're quite the pair already," Jim said, speaking louder this time, as if he wanted someone other than Sherlock to hear.

It was only now that Sherlock was reminded of John, still stood with a terrified glint in his eye, sweat dripping down his forehead as a result of wearing a bulked up duffle coat indoors. He took a momentary glance towards his friend, noticing the latter and frowning a little.  
"Was that_ worry_ there Sherlock?" Jim said playfully, having picked up on Sherlock's discomfort at John's apparent danger. It seemed he was every bit as observant as Sherlock was. This impressed Sherlock, more than anything else. _And yes_, he said to himself, turning his icy blue gaze back to Jim's fiery brown one, _they did make quite the pair..._

"Although, you seem rather loved up with Johnny boy over there," Jim was saying now, shaking his head as if disappointed. He edged a touch closer to Sherlock, his expensive looking shiny shoes squeaking on the tiled floor. "I hope he doesn't get jealous easy," He grinned devilishly, and Sherlock's chest clenched faintly, "Because I'm not letting you go home with him looking _quite _so angelic," His eyes were naughty now, excitement vivid within his expression. He was blatantly obsessed with Sherlock. And as much as Sherlock hated to admit it, he was beginning to think that he could just as easily become obsessed with Moriarty. There was a stirring in his crotch at those impishly wicked eyes, and when Jim stepped closer to Sherlock, the heat between them was so very tempting...

_"You know we'd be perfect together Sherlock,"_  
Jim whispered, creeping ever closer to him, hands in the pockets of his opulent three-piece suit. Sherlock couldn't help but notice how it clung to his body when he moved. Oh, he _was_ attractive...  
_"We were made for each other,"_  
His voice was nothing but a whisper now, every word ghosting over every inch of Sherlock as he struggled to disagree. He and Jim _would_ fit _so_ well...  
_"We're the same,"_  
That same vaporous tone, "We're the clever ones, Sherlock. No one understands us, because we're special. You're all alone in this big bad world and even though you don't like to admit it, you've longed for someone, anyone, to understand, ever since you realised you were different. And we both know that was a very, very long time ago," By the time Jim had stopped speaking, he and Sherlock were merely inches apart, and Sherlock could feel Jim's presence seeping through him like a spirit, like they were collaborating already – like they were one, singular entity.

"You don't have to be alone anymore, Sherlock. I'm here now. You've found me. Or rather, I've found you. We can be together now," Jim's intense gaze didn't hold up for one heartbeat as the two men stared into each other's souls and waited, breathing in sync and blinking at exactly the same rate. Sherlock hadn't been expecting all of this. He so wanted to be able to laugh in the face of Moriarty – to tell him he'd lost the game and to make some sort of genius get away with a safe John in tow, as if he didn't care. But he knew full well that this wasn't going to happen. Jim was simply perfect, and Sherlock couldn't just leave that behind. He knew everything that Jim was saying was absolutely true – outwardly he neither had nor longed for any kind of personal contact, but secretly he'd always felt small and alone, like a lost child in a storm, when he thought of all those people out there who were doing things so much more fulfilling than he was. And it was no lie that he had been immensely excited at the prospect of meeting an equal – a man who was on the same wavelength as Sherlock, in every aspect. He had wanted an equal, and that was exactly what he'd got.

One other thing Sherlock was eternally baffled by and yet entirely captivated by was that Jim Moriarty, it had to be said, was utterly beautiful. His faultless, creamy white skin held a rare kind of glow to it, like he was sacred in some sense, and those wide chocolate eyes were spellbinding to say the least. He had a permanent little smile playing upon his full, pale lips, and the urge to touch them felt much more natural and appropriate than any other need he'd ever experienced. The compulsions to wrap his arms around Jim's petite, immaculately dressed frame felt deep rooted and normal, so much unlike to those unsightly compulsions he had in everyday life. The ones that drove him almost unwillingly into smoking, into drugs – into loneliness. No, his attraction to Jim was not a random impulse, like the desire to leap into the pool; it was a _need_ – a desperate, yearning necessity that Sherlock Holmes suddenly ached to carry out. He couldn't say no to Jim.

"Do you see what I mean, Sherlock?" Jim stepped back a little, allowing Sherlock to take a deep breath and relax himself as much as he could. The intensity of the evening was far more apparent than he had anticipated.  
"Yes," Sherlock finally said, entirely truthfully. He couldn't say no - his insides were crying out to be closer to Jim again, to touch him, to _feel_ him...

"Good," Jim grinned and suddenly the tense fog that had shrouded the entire world just moments ago was lifted. All Sherlock felt was desire towards those gorgeous glittering eyes. There was a thud, and Sherlock was suddenly aware of John, flat on his back, not moving whatsoever. His shock and spark of fear was subdued instantly by Jim's gentle hand upon his arm – it seemed Sherlock had moved instinctively towards John, and Jim had had to stop him.  
"He's alright, don't worry, it's just a tranquiliser. He was hearing far too much. You and I need some time alone, I think," Jim's smile was still there, and his eyes were still fixed upon Sherlock. Sherlock, who, despite caring for his friend in a roundabout way, could not care about him right now. Because Jim had ran his hand down Sherlock's front, stroking the soft fabric of Sherlock's suit. It felt very strange to have Jim touch him. Strange and yet _natural._ He'd known him for barely five minutes and it felt like he'd waited _years_ for this.

Everything would be better – everything. _Just as long as Jim kept touching him..._


End file.
